


i found a martyr in my bed tonight

by lanyon



Category: Captain America
Genre: Bucky Cap, Commander Rogers, M/M, Superhero uniform porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is the spark, and Steve is the fuel (the coal that will never quite be a diamond). Bucky is Steve’s ruthlessness and Steve is Bucky’s conscience and they are each other’s martyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i found a martyr in my bed tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screamlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/gifts).



> +Belated happy birthday to screamlet who is amazing. ♥  
> +Title from _Some Nights_ by Fun.  
>  +Spoilers, in a vague kind of way, for Civil War stuff, though this is broadly based on MCU.  
> +Relatively open, non-monogamous relationships are represented here.

"It looks good on you, Bucky." He pauses. "Cap." His brow furrows. He misses the shield.

"Could say the same about you, _Commander_. Blue suits you. Brings out the colour in your eyes." '

"You're not looking at his eyes, James." Natasha’s hand trails over Bucky’s shoulder and, as she walks away, Bucky’s not looking at her eyes, either. She leaves, he sighs, he turns and Steve is standing, looking up at a wall of blank screens.

“It’s far from this you were raised,” says Bucky, the way Mrs Murphy from downstairs and decades ago used to say it, and Steve smiles a little.

“True enough, Buck.”

“So this is the party room, huh?” asks Bucky. 

“It’s the war room,” says Steve. 

‘’s what I said.” Bucky’s smile is wicked. “How’s all this power suitin’ you?”

Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t get to say he’s just a boy from Brooklyn anymore. Not when it’s the twenty-first century and he had seventy-odd years of frozen nightmares and Bucky’s empty, grasping hand reaching up for him and now Bucky’s metal knuckles rapping on a table-top, tick-tock and lub-dub. He doesn’t get to say _I dreamed of you_ right after Natasha Romanov has left the room, not when he’s seen Bucky with Natasha, her hair wrapped around his wrists like slashes of red and possession. “It’s not what I wanted,” he says. “This is Fury’s thing, or Stark’s.”

“Everyone makes their choices, ‘cept for heroes, Steve.” Bucky’s close now and his fingers curl under the front of one of the shoulder straps of Steve’s uniform. He tugs Steve towards him. “What’s the point of these things anyway? To strap you in? To strap something on?” His smile is a dangerous one. “To give me something to hang on to?”

Steve is blushing; it’s a habit he’s not been able to break throughout his whole long lifetime and Bucky surely knows it. He raises his hand to Bucky’s uniform, the cowl a dark blue puddle at the base of his neck. He tugs lightly and Bucky is toe to toe with him. Steve’s hand drags lightly down the front of Bucky’s uniform. It is strange from this angle; it is a memory of a reflection. He traces the star. Now, the flats of his palms, now his fingertips, whispers of touches, and Bucky laughs softly.

“Can’t feel a damn thing, Cap-” he says. _Harder_ , he doesn’t say.

“You’re Cap,” says Steve, absently. 

Bucky’s on his tiptoes before Steve knows it and one hand is still curled around a shoulder strap while he hooks his other arm around Steve’s neck and he breathes a soft kiss over Steve’s mouth. _Harder_ , Steve doesn’t say.

“Natasha,” he does say. 

“Is an enabler of the highest order,” says Bucky and now fingertips ghost over Steve’s jaw; Tony has called it a heroic jaw more than once, except when Steve is being a stubborn bastard and it has been repulsors at dawn (but that is over, now. Everyone breathes, in-and-out, and we are all friends here). “She knows there are things you give me that she can’t-” He bites down on Steve’s lower lip, sharp and sudden. “She knows there are things I can give you-”

Steve knows (Bucky has told him) that it is not anatomy; he knows that Natasha can give Bucky everything physical; he knows (Bucky has told him) that Natasha’s cock is bigger and he knows (he has seen and felt) how much Bucky likes to be fucked. 

Steve is a good man and he is a strong man and yet he cups Bucky between the legs. _Harder_ , he does not need to be told. They kiss softly and Bucky needs to shave and Steve’s lips tingle. Bucky moans softly and he is plastered against Steve’s front, and they are chest to chest and slow, measured breaths and star to star and this is some new constellation.

“She’s the flame,” whispers Bucky. He has said this before. “You’re - you’re the fuel.” 

“Mmm,” says Steve. And Bucky is the spark (and the man who was the Winter Soldier has always blazed) and Sharon is the air (and she is pure and biting like wind).

Steve tugs at the front of Bucky’s uniform and scowls, his fingers skittering over the fastenings. 

Bucky tips back his head and laughs. “You wore this uniform for the better part of a century and you can’t _work_ it? Oh, god. I’ll have to tell Clint that it’s true. You do sleep in it.” 

Steve scowls. In his defence, he was unconscious for decades. In his defence, he was buried in the uniform, torn and bloody though it was. In his defence, he moves so that he is behind Bucky and now Bucky is pressed against the tabletop, bent over it, and it is a large touch screen of Stark design and there is so much suspended animation, most of which is heavily classified. One metal hand lands heavily on it and there are spiderweb cracks and Tony won’t be pleased. 

“You break it, you bought it, Buck,” says Steve and he presses his hips tight against Bucky and he slips his hands to the front of Bucky’s uniform and this is familiar and he deftly unbuttons and unzips and unstraps and he can feel Bucky’s whole frame quivering. He spits on his hand and slips it inside and curls his fingers around Bucky’s cock and this, too, is familiar, though his hand is broader than it was, all those years ago, in a drafty apartment in Brooklyn in the thirties, and there are different calluses and different cares and that same rumble, deep within Bucky’s chest. 

With his other hand, Steve frees his own cock from this strange new uniform and he hisses as he repositions himself, rubbing against the groove between Bucky’s ass cheeks, the friction hot and almost unbearable. He presses his forehead against Bucky’s broad back and he is sighing heavily, breathing hard and Bucky is moaning. Steve digs his fingers into the skin over Bucky’s right hip and Bucky’s flesh-and-blood hand soon covers it, gripping and flexing, as the metal hand turns the table top to sand.

It is over fast, Steve coming hard over the small of Bucky’s back and Bucky coming over the table, in quick succession. It has been a while, after all, a while and a death and two new vocations, and Bucky turns around, leaning back against the table, which is smeared and stained and flickering. 

“Think we’ve voided the warranty?” Bucky asks and Steve huffs a laugh against Bucky’s neck, biting down, and their softening cocks are touching, sending spikes and sparks of heat straight to the base of Steve’s spine. Bucky wraps his metal hand around them both and Steve’s legs wobble. 

Bucky is the spark, and Steve is the fuel (the coal that will never quite be a diamond). Bucky is Steve’s ruthlessness and Steve is Bucky’s conscience and they are each other’s martyr. Soon, they will let go of each other once more and they will part ways and the last thing Steve will see will be the glint in Bucky’s eyes as they hold each other’s gaze in a moment of bravery and Commander Steve Rogers will know that Captain America is, and ever will be, on his side.


End file.
